


Two Very Different Things--Unless You Work Here

by SeraphinaGreene



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: "eating brains is hot; let's fuck" basically after lots of torture, Blood and Gore, Brain Eating, Cannibalism, Diego when did you become such a slut? Must be a power trip thing, Disturbing, Dubious Consent, Dubious Science, Kevin eats your brain, Kevin is such a zombie, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, PWP, Porn With Plot, StrexCorp drugs, StrexCorp science, StrexCorp smile procedure, This Is STUPID, This is trash, Torture, What Have I Done, What Was I Thinking?, Why Did I Write This?, You eat your brain, alllll the blood, alllllll the dubcon, brain eating all around, dubious brain surgery, even I don't get this fic sometimes, horrible abuse of bird names, is it cannibalism if they're alive?, it's a party; have some brains, like way more brain eating than there should be for this sort of thing, no one needs to read this, send help, shameless StrexCorp gore smut, this is what happens when StrexCorp can't drug you, what are all these tags even, you'll never hear calling someone "chickadee" the same way again, you're going to learn to smile wide wide wider and you won't be able to stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-26 14:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5008276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeraphinaGreene/pseuds/SeraphinaGreene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coming to with a blooming headache in a cold metal chair, you find yourself in a once-white-now-stale-yellow room, stained from years of blood. You know where you are. You know what's about to happen. </p><p>You've heard him talk about the results; you've walked past this room, heard the screams. Now it's your turn. It's simple: You walk in yourself, knowing, aware, perhaps a little too so. You leave all smiles, happy, and bleeding, or dead because you didn't survive their modifications. This is their last resort for those--like you--who the drugs don't work on, probably because you're not from Desert Bluffs. </p><p>Either way, you know this is your last stop. You're not going to make it out of here as yourself. After all, it's not every day that the Voice of Desert Bluffs and his lover, the head of the StrexCorp science team (who designed this procedure) took an interest in an Outsider, now is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiring a New Employee

You're cold. 

That's the first thing you notice. Beside the blooming headache from a bump on your head, the fact that you're bound and strapped to a high-backed chair with a headrest, armrests, and even leg rests-- _entirely made of metal_ \--and the fact that you are nearly as naked as you were seconds after your birth--excluding some sort of thing you can only think to call a 'public decency strip,' (It covers your genitals, but not much else)--your head throbs to the steady rhythm of your own heart and sounds faintly like thousands of small bees. 

It's bright. 

You peek open a bleary, wary eye to a bright, probably once white-but-now-stained yellow and splattered with years and years of blood and viscera.  
The room was washed recently, stale water running down the left wall, but there is still some uncleaned blood in the corners.  
It is then that you notice that you can't see the door. You shiver when you realize that given how tightly you are strapped in, you can't even turn your head to see anyone come in.  
When they do, however, it turns out you don't need to see the door to know who it is. 

He's humming. 

Kevin's humming when he comes in, something old, and sad, and dark. It's his favorite. You know because you know him. And what a scary notion _that_ is. 

A year. 

That's all it's been--just over a year. Really, though, that's all the time you need to get to know someone like Kevin. He's someone who twists his words, a wordsmith who crafts a rose-colored lens view of the world that soothes the drugged and provides nightmares for everyone else. Yet it's more than that--he _lives_ it. He, too, is drugged, fed by propaganda, but he is a good little productive employee nevertheless. He _loves_ it. He loves getting his hands dirty, loves the feeling of blood, and viscera, and guts under his hands, his feet, and seeping into his console, and dripping down the walls. He loves taking in new strangers, especially the blood-streaked ones. 

It's foggy. 

He was the one who found you, stumbling and dehydrated and famished in the sandwastes, "covered in lovely, becoming splatters of dried blood." The radio host took you in, flashing his wide, wide, wider smile, puzzled by your grinless face. "Where's your smile, chickadee?" He asked you, after a productive and viscera-filled day of work. You had nothing to smile for. You hardly knew what a smile _was_ anymore. You're pretty sure what Kevin had was _not_ a smile, anyway. You couldn't remember what a real smile looked like. You couldn't remember how you got here. Everything before the sandwastes is lost in the wind, fleeting memories of someone else's life. 

You shivered. 

Of _course_ you did. You're _freezing_ , cold skin against colder metal. It was, admittedly, also in fear. No, not fear--anxiety. You know why you're here. You know what this room is for. You know what is coming next, and _that_ very notion is absolutely _terrifying_. 

He's grinning. 

Kevin's standing in front of you, mouth open, teeth bared, corners turned up in the semblance of a smile. "Where's that smile of yours, chickadee?" He asks you, as he always does, and you say nothing, as you always do, lips firmly set in a thin line, and he continues without you. "No matter, little bluebird. You know how this works, after all. Once you leave here, you'll never have anything but a smile on your face ever again!" 

It's maddening. 

You want to reach up and strangle him, but you know he'll take that as a hug. You want to flee from this chair, but the restraints are too tight. He'd never turn his back; you're here for only one reason: the procedure. StrexCorp Synernists Inc. employee full potentialTM! 

He's squinting. 

"What's on your mind, little sparrow? Catbird got your tongue?" He murmurs, chokes back a laugh as he leans close to whisper in your ear. "No need to be nervous; you know I'll be right here through the whole thing."  
" _Yes_ , Kevin, _sure_ " You reply sarcastically, unable to help yourself any longer. "Because _that_ is going to make me feel better about this."  
"The little bird speaks!" The radio host replies gleefully, and clasps his hands together under his chin, blood-caked nails lacing together smoothly.  
You narrow your eyes at him. 'Little bird, chickadee,' he calls you. You don't get the bird names. He says he'll tell you someday. You ignore the nickname for now. "Why am I here, Kevin? Why now of all times?" You glare at him and grit your teeth. "Have you been talking to that lunatic mob-boss-mad-scientist boyfriend of yours about me again?" 

He giggles. 

Of course it's not _actually_ a giggle. It's closer to a cross between a giggle, a dull hand saw being ground across rusty metal, and the cry of a petulant, pouting child. "Of course!" He said with a bearing of teeth in the intended shape of a smile rather than a functional one once more. "You know that! I'm _always_ talking about you, pretty lark. StrexCorp is just _dying_ to get a hold of your potential. Diego has decided that it's time; it's time for you to embrace the Smiling God and become a proper employee!" 

What now? 

He continues talking without you, which is good, because you have no idea what to say. He keeps circling the chair excitedly, unable to sit still. It's probably everything they've drugged him with reacting with the coffee he'd drugged _himself_ with. "Only with your permission, of course." The bearing of teeth grows wide, wide, wider.  
"And if I say no?" You ask, eyebrow raised.  
He is still smiling. It is impossible for him to _stop_ smiling. He left this room alive, after all. Just because he is smiling doesn't mean he is happy, though. You of all people know that. "Then I am authorized to use all of a manner of persuasion to receive such consent." A glint of teeth. "See, a 'yes' is _required_ , but we aren't exactly _picky_ about how we get it." 

You gulp. 

You can't help it. You tried not to. It's just, the glint of his teeth, the dark, dark black of his eyes turned on you, that's new. He's used it more than once to defend you, that 'I'm-going-to-draw-a-lot-of-blood,-mutilate-a-lot-of-flesh,-and-love-every-second-of-it' face, but never _against_ you. It's...shocking. He licks his lips. "So, little bird, what'll it be?" He's standing on your left side, running a hand through your hair, slightly jagged nails catching in it and against your scalp. 

You flinch. 

Kevin stops stroking your hair to slip behind you. The clink of metal against metal produces a scalpel. It's clean of blood, but you doubt it's been washed with anything other than water. He comes to your side to rest the blade, cold and sharp and caked with flecks of the memory of someone else's skin, against the flesh of your chest, and asks, croons right in your ear, "Yes, or no?"  
"Fuck you, asshole." You hiss, grit your teeth, and look him directly in the eye. 

"Maybe later," 

He barks out that laugh of his--the one that sounds like a pack of dogs and the jingling of bells--and draws the blade across your chest, digs it into your flesh, and cuts a square of it off. It's neat and clean, red and oozing blood. You hiss and cringe. It hurts worse than you thought it would. He laughs that laugh again as he cuts another square, blood dribbling out where the metal slices through virgin flesh. You furrow your brow and grit your teeth even harder, determined not to give in to him. He's carving some sort of grid; you notice by the third square; they're evenly spaced, evenly cut, and evenly shaped, pooling crimson and running slightly, one into the other. He sets the pieces he's carved out onto the tray behind your head.  
Once he's finished with the fifth, you're clenching your fists tightly, nails digging into the skin to the point where there are little curved bleeding rivulets in your fists, and he asks you again, "Yes, or no?"  
"F-fuck you, asshole." You reply again, continue to grind your teeth and glare at him. 

"Maybe later," 

He echoes back with the lick of his lips and digs the blade once more into your skin, carving a neat little square into your flesh, continuing his perfect little grid. You watch, cringing, eyes tightening in anguish, as he finishes two more, crimson still streaking and pooling like paint spills on your chest. "Look at my pretty little chickadee." He croons, "Like a Sunday bird, all trussed up and carved and bleeding." He traces one of the holes he's made in your chest with a finger, clearly pleased with his work, "Like a human chessboard." Kevin leans down to blow across your wounds and kiss and lick at the flesh, and you hiss out in pain, it almost comes out as a shriek. "Want to play a game?" He chuckles darkly against your flesh--the sound of malicious court jesters and a half-dead crow--he lifts his hand, puts the scalpel back on the tray beside your expertly removed flesh, and returns to slip a finger into another unoccupied wound and twist inside. You bite back a scream. 

He asks. 

"Yes, or no, chickadee?" _You won't,_ you tell yourself. _You can't_ , you insist. Except you're not going to hold out much longer. He knows it, too. "Don't make me use the knife again, little canary." He taunts, and you try not to whimper. You are completely and totally fucked. He can see it in your eyes. He grins that wide, wide, wider smile as you gulp shallowly. He raises an eyebrow and reaches behind you to pick up the scalpel. It glints against the light as it comes into your vision.  
You wince and sob and gasp out, "No more, please! I'll do it!"  
Kevin laps at the blood running down your skin in rivulets like sweat, clearly enjoying this more than any person truly should. He hums and murmurs out, "What's the magic word again?" As he bites down on an open wound. 

You scream. 

There's no holding back now, so you don't even try. He bares his teeth in the shape of a smile against your skin. "Fine!" You yell, scream. "Yes! I'll do it! Just stop...just stop the pain...make the pain stop..." You try not to sob.  
He lets go, lifts his head and removes his finger from your wound and reaches up to stroke your cheek. "Shhh...It'll all be over soon." He kisses your temple, smearing some of your own blood there from his lips. It's on his teeth too. 

You cringe. 

It's hard not to sob or puke, but you manage to choke it back, swallow your whimper, and steady your shaking breath as he wipes away a tear threatening to escape with his tongue, still tasting of your blood. He rises up then, moves to the far corner of the blood-yellowed room that you cannot actually _see_ from your vantage point, and retrieves something.  
"I thought you said the pain was over." You whisper, almost scared.  
He slips the device over your head and cinches it tightly. "It is; I promise," He croons, murmurs into your temple. "Or rather, it will be very, very soon, little bird." 

You wince. 

He shooshes you, sensing your anxiety, and rolls his red-stained fingertips into your temples, then turns the thing on with the flip of a switch on the side. There is a rather loud sounding ca-thunk through your skull and you whine out in pain. He comes around to stand in front of you, puts his lips to your temple and murmurs out words you don't quite understand because he intentionally mutters them, opens his mouth in that facsimile of a smile. He reaches up to grip the sides of your head by the device clamped to it tightly and pulls, and you try not to scream and you fail as it wrenches and it tears at your skin and bone, as it pulls back to reveal your brain. You sob freely now, tears streaming out of your eyelids uncontrollably, and he kisses them each away, licks them up and away with his tongue, and that smile is back. That facial expression Kevin thinks is a smile, that wide, wide, wider mouth with the corners turned up in the lie of a smile. "No more tears, pretty bird." He tells you, and you don't understand what he means. "I'll have no more tears, for you'll have no more from here on out." He steps around you then, tips your head back so that he can work. 

He's pleased. 

Kevin licks the lips of his too, too wide smile, tasting blood in the crevices, and gets to work. He dips his finger in to run the rim where flesh meets bone, and croons out an unintelligible pleased noise as the rest of them follow suit. You can't feel it, but you know that he's doing it, that they're there, and you try not to throw up in your mouth. You fail, then swallow it back weakly, your nose stinging violently.  
"K-Kevin," You whisper, choking on your own words, "Wh-what are you doing?"  
He not-giggles again, and pets your head gently, but it's not your hair, or your neck, or your face. It's the viscera, and flesh, and fat underneath. You can't feel it, but you know he is. You cringe silently as he speaks.  
"Chickadee, I'm getting used to what you have to offer. You have _so_ much _potential_ , but you have all these negative thoughts and feelings and words in the way..."  
"B-but..." You begin, but he shushes you.  
"Shh, little bird. It'll all be okay now." He strokes the bumpy flesh as he licks his lips to reel in the drool crawling out of the corner of his too, too wide smile.  
It's the clatter of metal on metal that makes you tense. 

"Y-you p-promised..." 

You whimper, quietly pull yourself in and sob silently.  
"Shhh." He shushes again strokes your bumpy flesh once more. "No more knife, little cuckoo. Time for the spoon."  
You hiss out a breath as he grips it loosely in his fist. He hums as he decides where the best place to break the surface is; it's something ancient, and dark, and full of empty promises.  
There is a terrifyingly-loud squishing, slurping noise as he shoves it in, angled forward towards the front of your skull.  
Your screams echo louder, louder, louder off the walls as he forces it deeper, deeper, deeper in. You know when it hits home, because you're sweating, shaking, unsure what to feel.  
He pulls it out then, spoon, and flesh, and unrelenting blood, and groans--No. 

He moans. 

It speaks of years of blood and viscera and screams, of haunting threats whispered from lover's mouths to wanting, waiting, blood-caked ears. You are traumatized. It disgusts you. You break out into a smile. You can't stop smiling. _Why can't you stop smiling?_ He lifts the spoon to his lips, wraps his tongue, pink and gray, and wet around it, and draws a little of it in.  
There's viscera and brain matter and blood (it's debatable which there's actually more of) on his teeth when the door opens.  
Just as before, you couldn't see the door, but you didn't need to, given he spoke the second he entered. 

"Now Sunshine," 

It's endearing, but there's _nothing_ sweet about it. You imagine Diego's voice is always laced with deadly threat anymore, even unintentionally, even talking with Kevin.  
Well, he's never been _just_ "Diego" to you. As head scientist for StrexCorp Sinernists Inc. and a mob boss who loved his toys, Dr. Diego Santiago Herrera was a man who caused people to flinch if they accidentally looked him in the eye. Kevin, on the other hand, brightens instantly, visibly, his whole body perking up at the mere sight of him. "Beacon of light, _what_ have I told you about eating other people's brains?"  
The radio host curls in his long, lolling tongue and licks the crevices of his too, too wide smile, teeth still coated with a light sheen.  
You can't see any of this, but you know it's going on. You can hear it. 

You cringe. 

Your smile stays, wide and strong and immovable. He giggles that hollow not-giggle however, bites his lip, and turns his empty eyeless gaze to meet full brown ones. Kevin plays with the handle of the spoon. The light glints harshly off the metal. It hurts your eyes. You still can't stop smiling.  
"But Diego, it's delicious! You know I can't help myself." He pouts. "Just one more taste?"  
The dark-skinned scientist takes the spoon from the blood-spattered radio host. There's a wicked smile on his face, but like all expressions he has, it has an underlying sinister danger and deadly threat to it. He twirls the handle between his thumb and forefinger. Kevin manages to pout even more spectacularly despite his constant, immovable smile. 

"Pretty please?" 

Diego chuckles darkly, full of hollow hopes and crushed dreams. "Only if you let me feed it to you." He decides and croons it, lets it tumble out of his lips, of falling logs into wood chippers and of the slicing of red, swollen flesh.  
The noise Kevin makes is an incoherent squeal-moan full of shadows in the dark of the cold night and dark hopes met with a knife pressed to his throat and screams let out in shock that no one will ever hear. "Oh Diego, _Yes_."  
You're disgusted, and appalled, and want to run away. You can't stop smiling.  
You can't move. This is going to be hell. This is probably going to be worse than the torture, you think to yourself.  
"On one condition," You hear the scientist tell Kevin, "You finish up your work here first, Sunshine. There's no point in leaving a job unfinished."  
Kevin nods, looking slightly aghast, if his voice is any judge, "Of course! It would be terribly unproductive of me to do anything else!" 

You sigh. 

It can't get any worse, can it? At least they can finish this up and get you out of here before the two of them start getting any more disturbing than they already are. You roll your eyes. There is the clink of metal against metal again as Kevin picks up something else, something small and battery-sized, and slips it into the hole he's made in your head. He croons as it accepts its new home, as your brain quickly accommodates it and the little thing begins to do nothing more than, well, rewire your brain from the inside out, quickly and efficiently. It's called the StrexCorp Happy Pill ImplantTM , a battery sized device inserted inside the brain that lowers one's ability to metabolize the drugs used to keep their workers happy and sedated. They'd been trying the drugs, but it wasn't working. You just had too high of a metabolism, too high of an efficiency to maintain a drugged state, and while they admired your efficiency, being unable to sedate you had left them with a problem, considering your...questionable history. So they created this little device, and it worked. It rejected one in three test subjects, but it worked, and that was enough for them. 

You're fine. 

You're more than fine. Everything is perfect—absolutely perfect. You can't stop smiling, and you don't ever want to. Kevin pulls the skin and bone back up and over your head with his helpful little device to close up your skull, and you're so grateful, you thank him. He chuckles, and tells you he's just happy to help. He comes round to look at you and pulls out another device. "Open up that smile of yours," He says, his wide, wide, wider, and you know he'll be making yours just the same, and you do as you're told, opening your mouth excitedly, eyes shining brightly. "Good, little condor." He croons to you, and places the little device inside, then has you close your mouth down on it, and slices your mouth into that wide, wide, wider smile to match his, blood dripping out from the corners. He pulls the device out after a few seconds to make sure the cuts set, and licks away the seeping blood, then sews you up, pleased at his work. 

"So bright," 

You whisper it, but he's close enough to hear you. He nods, and whispers back, "It's the Smiling God." And giggles back, that not-giggle that sounds like angels singing and sunshine and heavenly song, "Do you believe in him?"  
"Smiling God, _yes_." You gasp out through the gaps in your sewn mouth, proud to be a productive member of society.  
Kevin is proud too.  
Diego has been silent all this time, proudly observing in the corner, notably watching his lover with a sweeping gaze that can only be arousal. You are eager to leave. He will want you gone. It is known that to make him mad when he's trying to have sex with Kevin can have... _dire_ consequences. 

You're distracted. 

You don't hear the question, and he frowns. Good employees are supposed to listen to their superiors. You blink up at him. "Sorry, sir, what did you say?" You ask, embarrassed.  
He repeats it. "He looks so pretty when he begs, doesn't he?"  
You gape at him, mouth slightly parted in the smallest of letter o's, and he steps toward you smoothly, knowingly. He owns the room and everyone in it; you can tell as he takes your face in his hand, turns it left, right, then center, slowly and deliberately as if appraising you, and then, tipping your chin up to look you in the eye, he runs his thumb across your bottom lip, a look caught between a sneer and a gloat on his face. He turns to his lover then, hand still at your face, "Quiet one, isn't the little bird?"  
"Well, the little robin is in shock," Kevin counters. "Embracing the Smiling God can have that effect on people."  
"True." He agrees, turning back to you. "Then there's only one thing we can do, Sunshine." He grins, a smile, a true smile with such malicious excitement behind it that it was no longer anything but a sneer, "We'll just have to show StrexCorp's newest employee the best way to have fun around here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of chapter one of this piece of trash. Not sure why I thought of this, or why I should continue. It's awful. It shouldn't exist, but here it is, for the whole world to look at and go, "WHY SERA WHY." So, congrats, you have that pleasure. Next chapter will start the smut, so I wanted to end it here before I started the part where it gets even worse.
> 
> Bird names and meanings (order of appearance):  
> Chickadee--cheerful, truth, expression  
> Bluebird--modesty, unassuming confidence and happiness, transformation  
> Sparrow--awakening, common nobility  
> Catbird--language, communication  
> Lark--harmony, luck, sacred sound, awakening  
> "Sunday bird"--technically not a bird, but in reference to a bird served at meals (not necessarily chicken/turkey etc.)  
> Canary--power of voice  
> Cuckoo--new fate  
> Condor--ancient mysteries of life and death, spirit communication, overcoming limitations  
> Robin--new growth


	2. Showing Them a Good Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love this crazy trash? Want more of it? Got any ideas for another chapter for this crazy chaos? You know where that submit box is. I'm planning a sequel and I need your ideas! Lemmie know what you think. Your words are the blood and sweat and hair that fuels my creative process. What? Did you think it was made of drinking tea and lots of going "hmm..." over a keyboard? Think again. It's all about the sacrifices to long-dead gods. _Everyone_ knows that.

It's quiet. 

Only for a moment, though, because your heart is throbbing in your ears and it sounds like embarrassment and the color mauve, so it's too loud for anything to be truly quiet.  
Kevin's eyeless gaze has turned dark—the darkest you've ever seen it, and his mouth, that wide, wide, wider brilliant, terrifyingly beautiful exhilarated smile is blindingly bright, and you know that even with your new one, you'll never be able to make a smile _quite_ like that.  
"Well?" Diego asks, eyebrow raised. "What's the word I'm waiting for, Sunshine?" 

Kevin moans. 

"Smiling God, _yes_." The radio host shudders, steps toward the both of you.  
Diego grins widely, knowingly, too many teeth and absolutely perfect. He drops his hand from your face then, turns to his lover and says—no, intones, "Get the spoon."  
It's your turn to shudder, still confined by this metal chair, naked and bleeding openly. You should feel trapped, ashamed, at the very least—the old you would be. The _imperfect_ you. You feel anything but, now. They have helped you kill your imperfect self. As for Diego, he may be a volatile madman, but there was true genius to his madness. Plus, with a voice like that and such a dominant, controlling attitude, it's no wonder that Kevin, ever the romantic, had fallen hard and fast—in love _and_ to his knees.  
Kevin returns just as you start to focus on his reality, spoon in hand, and offers it to the Strex scientist. He holds it out him like an offering to an idol of a long-dead god, a gift to his lover, but a treat for himself as well. 

"Now then," 

He says it as if it has no meaning, lets it hang there, but everyone who knows such a man knows it does, "You were horribly unproductive, Kevin, delaying a StrexCorp procedure for personal enjoyment." He tugs the eyeless man closer by the lapels of his blood-stained shirt; you watch as he works neatly at his lover's tie. "As the one who assigned you it, I, by the authority of the StrexCorp employee handbook, have the right to punish you as I see fit."  
Kevin only licks his lips, rolling in drool from his gorgeous, wide, wide, wider mouth.  
The mob boss only smirks, pleased at his eyeless companion's reaction. He looks over at you then, smirk widening as he meets your gaze. You can't look away. You can't stop staring, mouth slightly agape, breathing warm, shallow breaths in the stale air, blood seeping from the cuts in your face into your mouth. "And what do you think." It's not a question, though it was phrased that way. It's simply there; he simply says it—as simply as a man like Dr. Diego Santiago Herrera could say something, which is to say not at all. "Should I order him to his knees," Kevin whines loudly, insistently as the darker skinned man yanks on his crumpled lapels, the radio host's legs look like they're going to buckle under him at the smallest of commands. "Have him take my cock into his mouth and fuck his throat raw until I come, leaving him hard and aching and unable to touch himself?" He hums a deep not-hum, the sound of nail clippers on glass, contemplates this, then shakes his head. "No," He decides then, "He'd like that far too much." He thinks for a moment more, then says, 

"I know." 

He whispers something in Kevin's ear, and the man with the tie, the man with the blood-stained lapels, whimpers again. "You promised me I could have it." It isn't a whine, but it isn't a demand either. It just is. Some things just are, you notice, between these two.  
"Not all," The scientists says, one side of his face turned up into some semblance of a smirk, "Just some. You know you want to share. Think how much better it will taste this way."  
Kevin nods then, grins. "Okay." He agrees easily. It's hard to say no to him, especially when he's like this.  
"Kevin." Diego looks at him, thunder and lightning in his eyes, daring him to defy him.  
"Yes my beloved Diego?" Kevin asks sweetly.  
"Kevin." Diego repeats in a threatening tone. 

"Yes, Sir?" 

" _Kneel_." The thunder and lightning in his eyes darkens and crashes. The eyeless man, tie undone, drops to his knees swiftly, quickly, kneecaps singing out an echo of hollow screams, cracking sharply against the dirty, blood-caked linoleum. A gasp slips out from somewhere. It takes you a few moments to realize that it had come from _you_. Diego's smirk fills out the rest of his face, but he does not take his eyes off where Kevin kneels.  
The radio host's eyeless gaze searches up, seeks approval, hands rising to the fabric around Diego's waist.  
"Kevin." The Strex scientist warns again.  
"Sir?" He blinks, drops his arms into his lap.  
"Did I give you permission to start stripping me?" 

"No, Sir." 

Kevin's gaze falls to his hands.  
"What did I instruct you to do, Kevin?" He towered over him, unmoving, disapproval on his face.  
"You told me to kneel, Sir."  
He threaded his fingers through the man's locks and yanked his head back. "When I give you an order, you are to do exactly as I say, and no more. Isn't that what got you into trouble in the first place." Again, not a question. "Are we clear, Sunshine." 

"Yes, Sir." 

You bite your lip.  
Diego smirks at you, reminding you that he knows very well that you haven't stopped staring once. When he turns back to Kevin, he lessens his grip on the radio host's hair—but not much—and orders, "Now you will strip me."  
Kevin does so eagerly, but there is speed to it too, Diego has no need for clumsiness or inefficiency here, either. Once he has peeled off the scientist's pants and boxers, he tugs on the lab coat, but Diego dismisses him, "The lab coat stays on." The scientist knows how much the radio host likes it against his face.  
With his free hand, Diego taps Kevin's chin. "Open."  
Kevin obeys, wide, wide, wider smile opening for him.  
Diego isn't gentle. There isn't warning either. He simply grabs Kevin's hair and fucks him, but Kevin loves it, loves the twisted consent of their fucking and their games as he loves the blade of a knife against virgin flesh. Diego revels in the dominance. Hand fisting in the radio host's locks, thrusting in and out of the eyeless man's wide, wide, wider smile, he isn't staring at him at all. He's watching you.  
He's watching the look on your face as you watch them, their bodies colliding and meshing, the harsh pace in which they had set. Kevin's drooling thickly now, unable to reel it in with his tongue, it simply drips freely, falls beneath him to the linoleum surface. His lips are bright red, and he's resting back at an angle to allow his lover a perfect thrust. He's also ridiculously hard—you'd noticed that a long time ago—but not once has he tried to touch it. He knows that if he is good, _maybe_ Diego will let him come.  
Diego, on the other hand, _is_ about to come. He doesn't look it, not to the rest of the world, not to those who have never seen a man like him come, but he is.  
When he does, it is like art, arching of back and stillness and silence, and you are the one making the insistent noise of a loud inhale through your nose as he locks eyes with you, smirks at you, with a look that says, _We're nowhere near from done yet._

You squirm. 

You choke back whatever noise has tried to escape your mouth, and you squirm as Kevin stares up at Diego, chokes on nothing as he takes everything his lover gives, and moans happily, despite how desperate he is to come.  
Diego pulls out after, pleased, and says, "Do you want to come, Sunshine."  
"Yes, Sir; please, so much, anything—" Kevin can't stop blathering.  
"Kevin." He croons out, "You know what you have to do if you want to come."  
"Please, yes, I'll-I'll do it."  
The scientist is thoroughly pleased now. "Good to hear, Beacon of Light. Now, go tell your little chickadee what you have to do."  
He stands then, wobbles on legs that have lost blood flow, and walks the short distance to where you sit. "I have to share the spoon with you."  
He says it, and you're not sure which he's more pleased about, the fact that he was ordered to by his lover, or the fact that he was invited to share something such as this with you.  
You're pleased too. It's an honor to share something like that, and so personal! Not to mention a perfect way to say goodbye to your old life before. You can't smile wide, wide, wider yet, because your cuts are healing, but you nod, you say, "Yes."  
And he grins wide, wide, wider for you, and that makes you happy. Kevin looks up to ask, but Diego is already there, handing him the spoon, and he offers you the first taste.  
He has to feed you like some sort of child, still strapped into the chair, but you don't mind, and you open your mouth to taste it. He lets you have the tiniest bite, and it tastes delicious, like it was made to satisfy gods. Squishy and still warm, it's covered in blood and you realize why Kevin likes it so much. You grin as you finish it. 

"Thank you." 

Kevin reveals that wide, wide, wider smile back at you, making up for the fact that you can't share it. Diego towers above you both, pleased. The radio host looks to him, asking for permission with his eyes. The scientist nods. "You may finish it." He strokes Kevin's cheek. "Sit on your little cockatoo's lap while you do. I'm sure your little pheasant would love to watch." You can't help but moan out a quiet agreement. You've never seen Diego smirk so hard before.  
The eyeless man crawls into your lap, straddling the metal chair to face you (which looks really uncomfortable), and holds the spoon up to his own lips once more. That tongue is dragging out again, gray and pink and long, pulling what remains off of the utensil. You squirm more, wishing you could move, still too tightly bound to do anything.  
Kevin not-giggles and moans, a sound that plays in your ears like a symphony of death and torture. You relish in it, your hips colliding with his accidentally as he quickly finishes cleaning the instrument. Soon it is empty, clean and slick with spit, and he's looking at you with his eyeless gaze dark and dangerous, arousal evident. You bite your lip.  
Diego takes the spoon from Kevin's grip and sets it back down on the tray then returns, loosens your bonds around your hips. You cannot free yourself, but you can move them. Kevin gives him his wider, wider, widest smile, teeth glinting excitedly, and you breathe in an intoxicated breath of excited arousal. 

"May I?" 

Kevin asks excitedly, and Diego raises an eyebrow.  
"May you what, Sunshine."  
"May I fuck my little oriole, Sir."  
"Of course, Kevin. But only if you let me watch."  
The both of you moan at that, a loud echo that reverberates through your bodies. It sounds like years of promises forgotten now remembered. He stands and strips off his pants and boxers, pulling off that single piece of protection between you and being naked as the day you were born before he sits on your lap.  
You're eager for him. Perhaps too eager, but he doesn't go straight for it, despite the fact that he could probably come in mere minutes. His hands seek the wounds on your chest, still fresh, and you moan as his fingers find them, slip inside, relish in his earlier work. Blood begins to seep out of them once more as he re-opens them on accident. You don't mind. He bends down and uses his tongue to lick it up, flicks his eyeless gaze to meet yours as he smiles wide, wide, wider and traces his tongue to one of the holes, licks inside, and nibbles it, delighted by his work.  
You scream and moan. It hurts so bad. It feels so good. Kevin's other hand has found its way between your legs, to where everything has gone hard and wet and ready for him, and everything is a combination between pain and pleasure in a way that everything and nothing should be. He joins with you soon, slips inside you, and moans that not-moan of his that fills every crevice of your being that sounds like hell and angels singing at the exact same time and everything feels like the worst pain in the world and absolute bliss all at the same time. He's biting harder, both of his hands are at your wounds; yours are in his hair, pulling him farther, or is it closer? You're not sure, but you're wailing, wailing, screaming, in pain, in pleasure, either way in agony. You hear another moan, this time quiet, so quiet, you almost missed it. 

It's Diego. 

He never falls apart, not a man like this, but here he is, hand on his cock, jacking off, watching the two of you fucking, watching as you destroy him without even touching him. Kevin is a ravenous animal and you are his prey. Diego is the one who has set him loose to watch the show. Kevin is close. He's quickened his pace to the point of bruising the both of you, back arching and teeth breaking the skin.  
You scream as his release hits you, hard and fast and bruising, you come with the strength of it all, and it's a long, long time on the way down.  
Diego is the one who falls once more, the sight too much for him as he comes with a muffled moan, biting into his hand and falling against the wall. Then the room is silent. 

Truly silent. 

For the first time, the room is filled with nothing but heavy, heavy breathing.  
Kevin is the first who shifts, moving out of you and to the side, but he doesn't leave the chair, too heavy to do anything else.  
You are the first one to speak.  
"Why?"  
Diego and Kevin share a collective not-laugh, one that sounds like a combination of the crinkling of paper and the dying of birds.  
Diego rolls his eyes. "Isn't it obvious. You were scientifically fascinating. Someone whose metabolism is too strong for our drugs? Anyone worth anyone knows someone like that has a high stamina."  
Kevin glares at him, then pets your temple, hands still covered in a multitude of your fluids, "What he _means_ is that you're interesting. And have you seen yourself? You're gorgeous." 

"That too." 

Diego adds with the slight nod of his head.  
"No," You reply then. "Well yes, I wanted to know that too, but I was more curious about something else."  
Diego raises an eyebrow at that. "What else could possibly interest you at a time like this?"  
"Why bird names?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two of this chaos. It's still trash. All your reviews are lovely, though, so I keep writing.
> 
> Want more of it? Have ideas for it? Send in your requests! I'm writing a sequel and I'm taking ideas! They're the tears and blood and hair that fuel the next big one! Did you think it was all staring at a keyboard going "Hmmm..." and drinking tea? Well you'd be wrong! Send in those ideas!
> 
> Bird names and meanings (in order of appearance):
> 
> Chickadee: cheerful, truth, expression  
> Cockatoo: courtship, relationship bonds  
> Pheasant: family fertility, sexuality  
> Oriole: sunshine, warmth, joy

**Author's Note:**

> End of chapter one of this piece of trash. Not sure why I thought of this, or why I should continue. It's awful. It shouldn't exist, but here it is, for the whole world to look at and go, "WHY SERA WHY." So, congrats, you have that pleasure. Next chapter will start the smut, so I wanted to end it here before I started the part where it gets even worse.
> 
> Bird names and meanings (order of appearance):  
> Chickadee--cheerful, truth, expression  
> Bluebird--modesty, unassuming confidence and happiness, transformation  
> Sparrow--awakening, common nobility  
> Catbird--language, communication  
> Lark--harmony, luck, sacred sound, awakening  
> "Sunday bird"--technically not a bird, but in reference to a bird served at meals (not necessarily chicken/turkey etc.)  
> Canary--power of voice  
> Cuckoo--new fate  
> Condor--ancient mysteries of life and death, spirit communication, overcoming limitations  
> Robin--new growth


End file.
